


darkest before the dawn

by limned



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, First Time, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel), Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 01:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limned/pseuds/limned
Summary: Natasha remembers how this started.  Slowly, over a stretch of five missions in their second year, when it became obvious that they coped better with aftermath stress if they could take care of something for each other.





	darkest before the dawn

She’s toweling her hair dry when the knock comes, and quickly pulls on the rough S.H.I.E.L.D. issue bathrobe so she won’t keep him waiting.

Clint looks as exhausted but wide-awake as she feels. 

The side of his mouth twists up and Natasha shakes her head to cut him off, saying, “Don’t. I would have been at yours in ten,” and he manages a silent huff of almost-laughter before following her inside. “Get water, I didn’t yet,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads back to the bathroom.

He has six bottles lined up on each bedside table by the time she finishes combing out her hair. For a second it looks like overkill, but she does a brief mental recount of the hours of stress and combat and rattling adrenaline, then factors in how she didn’t look too hard at herself in the mirror, and decides it’s probably about right.

Clint is sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her a little closer than usual, so part of that must have been visible on her face. She touches his elbow briefly in apology before taking a bottle and draining half of it. 

“Your leg, right?” he asks when she’s finished, and she nods and sits down to extend it over his lap. 

She laid the first aid kit on the bed before showering. Her uniform’s reinforcements mostly held when she skidded across the gravel on the tower, but friction shredded it enough to dig a few roadrash gouges along the side of her knee and thigh.

She’s had the National Geographic channel at half-volume since before her shower and it’s still playing in the background, low and murmuring, some episode about rainforests.

Natasha watches as he cleans and bandages the scrapes, and the disinfectant stings in a remote way that doesn’t matter at all when she’s looking at Clint in clean S.H.I.E.L.D. sweats with his hair still damp from his own shower. Two items that have meant _alive_ and _safe_ for enough times that she’s just conditioned to relax a little when she sees them.

She leaves to change into matching issue and he’s already down on his stomach with his shirt off when she comes back. She climbs up and straddles him, leaning slowly into the small of his back with the heels of both hands, frowning when he groans almost immediately. “Jesus, Clint.”

“Yeah,” he says, half-muffled against the comforter. “Swung through a fucking window and landed on my back.”

“You need something better than me tomorrow,” she mutters, but doesn’t stop, working carefully up and down the muscles on both sides of his spine until the tension is less.

She zones out slightly with the reassuring feel of his warmth under her hands. It’s a little strange that she doesn’t know the exact length of time when she finishes, but she just hands him some ibuprofen from the kit, watches as he takes them with almost a full bottle of water, drinks the one that he makes her take in return.

She asks, “Better?” and he mumbles, “Yeah,” and they stretch out without saying anything else, the comforter rucked up around them, but the room’s warm enough that she doesn’t have to worry about him being cold. There’s an ocean program playing on the TV now and she looks at it blankly.

Natasha remembers how this started. Slowly, over a stretch of five missions in their second year, when it became obvious that they coped better with aftermath stress if they could take care of something for each other. Didn’t have to be huge; just something. Something to make them feel a little in control again. They could have gotten full treatment from Medical tonight but it wouldn’t have helped with the other part.

She needs to hear him breathing. She needs it, he needs it; they’ve shared a bed after thirty-seven bad missions, but it’s more this time, more than just the adrenaline and the relief. She’s watching something about coral reefs and she was fighting an alien horde less than five hours ago but there’s nothing in her mind except Clint breathing steadily, warm and inches away.

He leans away to grab more water, and by the time he settles back down, she’s decided.

She waits long enough for him to finish drinking and discard the bottle before she rolls into him.

It isn’t smooth, it’s almost desperate, no finesse, but she doesn’t care. He only freezes for an instant before responding, his hands sliding around her back and she moves her lips along his jaw and he makes a harsh sound low in his chest before they’re kissing, soft and brutal and she doesn’t know what kind of noises she’s making, only that he’s _here_ , he’s warm and alive and breathing and she came so close to never having this, his mouth still cool from the water.

Time disappears like when she was rubbing his back and she only comes out of it when he whispers, “Nat,” and pulls back to brush his thumb over her lip, raising it to show her where she’s broken the cut open again, and maybe this is why they’re the exact right degree of fucked-up to match, because he doesn’t stop her when she kisses him again anyway.

The adrenaline fall hits them at the same time. Clint laughs against her throat after they groan in frustration, still pressed tight and wanting, and says low, “I’m going to destroy you tomorrow,” and she curls around him and laughs helplessly. She’s still laughing as she crashes down into sleep, and still listening to him breathe.


End file.
